Bad things happen to everyone.
While Olive knew that to be true, she still felt like more bad things happened to her than the average person. Maybe she had just been born unlucky. Or cursed. Her current situation may have been coloring her mood, but it felt like her whole life was built on tragedy and misfortune. You aren't a bad person and you did what you had to. To survive. She reminded herself of this over and over as she trudged along the crumbling highway shoulder. If the lonely two-lane road could be called a highway at all. He was dead now and she was safe, that was all that mattered. Granted she had no plan and no money, so safe was relative. How she yearned to go back in time and chose another path. Hell, to be someone else entirely.
The harsh wind tossed her hair and peppered her with dirt and grit. Her whole body hurt, especially her tender and most likely broken rib. Hands jammed in her pockets, she kept her eyes down, and spit out the dirt and hair when it stuck to her lips. She was cold, tired, and aching. What she really wanted was to lie down and rest for a lifetime.
The sky overhead was dark for mid-afternoon and the clouds were violent in their movements. The leaves on the trees along the road were blowing inside out and she vaguely remembered her mother telling her that foretold rain. And she was without an umbrella, a proper coat, or a plan for that matter. Rain would certainly add a cherry to her perfect day. The air felt electric-charged, the world around her eerily vacant and unfamiliar. She wore a thin jean jacket and her teeth chattered with the rapidly dropping temp. If only she'd had more time, she would have packed for colder weather, she could have done a hundred things better.
When she'd gotten off the bus at the furthest stop she could afford, she learned the station was little more than a bench and a quickly shuttering- up window attached to a tiny town hall. She'd asked the ticket taker, attempting to not look suspicious and surely failing, which direction would take her to the next town closer to the border. Lady said a few miles up the state highway, but the town wasn't much bigger. She'd been walking for an hour or so, thumb ready to reach out, but hadn't seen one car pass, which in and of itself felt odd. Without any other options, being out of enough money to get anywhere and with no one around, she just kept walking. The wind was slowing her down, but surely, she'd walked the "few" miles. She figured midafternoon on a weekday that someone was out on the roads, running errands, picking up kids, and going to the store. That some good Samaritan would pick her up. But there was no one.
Walking along, without a soul knowing where she was, she felt profoundly alone. If she died, no one would even know where to look. The thought kept spinning around her head, causing her pulse to race. She felt vulnerable with the thick woods crowding in on either side, so dark she couldn't see more than a few feet inside them. She was a city kid, raised in tenements and tall apartment blocks. She didn't like the feeling of being watched from the woods. What even lived in the woods this far north? Were there bears? Coyotes? Rabid moose? She hated to admit that she had no idea what kind of animals even lived in the woods in upstate New York.
She pressed on, hastening her pace in part to keep her warm, and in part to get her faster to wherever was ahead.
***
When Olive did reach the next town, she was dismayed to see the few shop fronts were mostly boarded up, windows papered over long enough they'd all faded to yellow. The houses were ramshackle, the roads in disrepair; everything man-made seemed to be falling into ruin. Nature was taking back the rusty cars on blocks in front yards, and the lopsided picket fences had long since folded over and were strangled by vines. Creepy. Not even a dog barking to show anyone still lived in the town at all.
As she passed an old church, which she realized was mostly burnt up and little more than the front facade and doorway facing the street, she heard the rumble of thunder, and the dark clouds overhead made good on their threat. An icy, heavy rain came pouring down in sheets. She hunkered under the overhang of the church for an hour waiting it out, but she couldn't stay there shivering all night. She'd need to find shelter, either inside the burnt remains of the building, or keep moving. In the end, she decided to keep walking and hope that the rain would end soon.
Dusk went to full dark and the rain never let up for a moment. It was at the point, soaked through and shaking, that she saw a light, glowing like a beacon, cutting through the disorienting walls of rain.
It was a beer light, red and hazy, wavering like a mirage. She ran toward it in her squishy wet boots as fast as she could manage. Crossing the street without bothering to look.
She was near tears with relief when she reached the door and yanked it open. Inside it was warm, and dry. Blues played low and lonely on an old-timey jukebox in a far corner, and it took her some blinking to see much of anything inside. The wood bar stretched the length of the place, and scattered tea lights on the few shabby tables gave what little light they could. The bar was narrow and long like a railroad car. Empty of people save a lump at the farthest end of the bar, hunched over a beer. And on the other side, closer to her, was a bartender with a book, who raised his head as she came in.
She left a river behind her as she sat on the nearest stool, trying to come off as normal, and not frantic.
"Really coming down out there." He said as he set his paperback down, face down and open. She peeled off her wet jacket and hung it on the stool beside her. The shirt beneath was glued to her skin, but wasn't much for that, she doubted he had a robe or big towel to offer. She trembled with cold. "Get you something?" He said.
"Whiskey would be great, whatever is cheapest." He nodded and poured some into a glass.
"Not a good day for a walk. Seems you got caught in the storm." He remarked as he slid the glass to her.
"No." She agreed and sipped her drink. It burned and warmed as it went down. "You don't serve food, do you?" She looked around the dingy place, smelling of stale smoke and beer, the paneled walls were grimy and it had sticky linoleum floors.
"Got some chili in a crock pot, or a bag of chips, that's about it tonight."
"Umm, how much is it? The chili, that is." She hated asking but she had so little money left and after that, there was nothing. He squinted at her, taking in her sodden clothes and visibly shivering, "It won't clean you out, I promise. I'll get you a bowl." He smiled kindly, perhaps pitying, and it softened his face. He was handsome, in a scruffy redneck way, and she relaxed a little more. She was safe and dry, she would have some food, and warm up. And most importantly, at least for another night, she'd gotten away.
For now.
It was still pouring out, when the chili bowl was empty, as were the three packets of crackers, her whiskey, and a large glass of water. She guessed it was a full night, but without her phone, she hadn't a clue what time it was or really where she was. And with no place to go, a dread had settled deep in her gut. Night, raining, homeless and alone. She had to face the real prospect of sleeping rough out in the rain or breaking into some abandoned property. Had she planned all of this better she would have had some money, a proper bag packed, a plan, a friend to stay with, something. Not just panicked running, without even a blanket. She wasn't sure how cold it was going to get, but there was a real possibility she could freeze to death.
As if reading her mind, the bartender asked if she had a place to stay.
I must look desperate, she thought sourly. Olive was afraid if she met his eyes that she'd start crying. When she didn't answer his question, he'd placed another whiskey, filled nearly to the top of the glass, in front of her, "I'm out of money, you should take it back."
"You look like you could use it, compliments of the house. Now tell me, what are you doing in our tiny little slice of heaven here? With no place to go?"
Olive scrubbed at her face, wondering how much to divulge, or if she should just hop off her stool and leave. It would be better if she left little to no trail. Talking, becoming memorable, was a good way to get found and caught. No doubt her face would be up on the news now. In the papers tomorrow morning. "It's complicated. I just needed to get north, fast, took a bus as far as I could afford, and then started walking."
"North like Canada?" He caught her expression and put his hands up, "Never mind, not my business. Just glad I was open and able to help since this storm isn't planning on letting up until tomorrow mid-morning. So, let me ask you again, what's your plan for tonight?"
Was he a danger to her? She stared into his face and tried to decide if he was safer than sleeping under a moldy tarp in some yard. "Why do you care? Why would you help me?" She finally ground out, staring at the beads of moisture on her water glass. He was about to answer when two loud slaps on the counter caused them both to jump.
"One sec," The bartender said and opened a beer and brought it to the old man on the other end of the bar, which she'd entirely forgotten was there. He'd been totally silent sitting at the corner spot at the bar against the wall. He was shrouded in shadow, a large coat hid his body, and a banged-up felt hat hid most of his face. He held the beer with two gnarled hands that trembled. The bartender returned to her.
"I care because it's not every day a wet girl comes in with all her shit in a bag and no place to go, who is definitely running from someplace, or someone, deciding that anything was better than what was at home."
"Don't presume to know anything about me." She shot back defiantly.
The bartender rolled his eyes, "Fine. But I know what's out there tonight."
"Oh yeah? Creeps? Animals? Frost?"
"I just want you to get where you're going safely."
She rested her chin on her fist, the whiskey loosening her up, "I see, so this is all about gallantry in the end hmm? How nice."
"What's your name?" He said.
"--what's yours?" She shot back.
"Buck. Bernard actually, but everyone round here calls me Buck."
She debated giving her real name, but backed out of it, instead going with the first name that popped into her head. Strangely, it was her long-dead mother's.
"Joan." He looked at her for a moment and then stuck his hand out. They shook, his hand was warm and rough in hers. Strong.
"I have a guest room. You can stay there tonight, wait out the rain, and I can drop you at the next bus station tomorrow with a heavier coat. No strings, nothing weird. Take it or leave it."